


We Could Stay Right Here

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft Fluff [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Holmes Brothers, John Plays the Piano, M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6147914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Greg are invited along to the Holmes' Christmas dinner. Mummy asks for some music. Sherlock won't play the violin for them because he's having a sulk, so Mycroft volunteers John to play for them. John protests a bit since it's been years since he played, but Mycroft is very confident his skills haven't wasted away. They haven't. Sherlock isn't sure how he feels about this (doesn't like not having picked up on it, hates that Mycroft knew first) but eventually takes up a post by the piano. Maybe there is a violin-piano duet after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Could Stay Right Here

Sherlock was sat in his usual chair, sulking like the child he was.

“We are going to your parents, Sherlock whether you like it or not.”

“But-”

“And your mother specifically asked that you bring your violin.” John sat said instrument into his boyfriend's hands, then he handed him his bow and case. “I don't want to break anything, so you'll have to actually put it in the case.”

“But, John...”

“No, Sherlock, enough. Violin. Case. Coat. Door. It's not difficult.”

“But Mycroft and Gavin will be there all over each other.”

“You damn well know his name is Greg!” John was starting to get wound up with this.

It was often fun to see how far he could  push John, but Sherlock could tell this wasn't the time for it. He dutifully prepared his violin for transportation beyond the door of the flat and put on his coat, then he went and simply stood in the doorway.

The doctor just rolled his eyes. He grabbed his own coat and pushed passed the detective in the doorway and climbed into the waiting black sedan.

Sherlock tossed his violin onto John's lap, ignoring the resultant grunt.

“I am not a luggage rack, Sherlock.” The doctor resisted the urge to throw it back at his boyfriend and placed it on the floor of the car instead. “You'd better sort your attitude out, babe, or this is going to be a lot harder than it needs to be.”

“Why do we need to do these stupid family things?”

“Sherlock, this is the first. Now do not say another word.”

The detective looked for a loophole in what John had said, but the other man had learned not to say 'one more word.' Sherlock crossed his arms and huffed, letting his irritation be known.

“Alright then. Stop the car,” John ordered.

“What...”

“Turn us around, back to Baker Street.”

“But John, Mummy'll be furious.”

“Won't she, though.”

“Don't turn around,” Sherlock ordered the driver. “I'll quit complaining, John. Promise.”

“Good.” John rested his hand on his boyfriend's thigh. That had been a nice bit of manipulation, even if he did say so himself.

As they pulled up, despite Sherlock's promise that he'd be cooperative, he couldn't help himself but to sit in the seat hugging his violin case to his chest. Even as John climbed out and retrieved their suitcase from the driver.

The doctor walked a few steps towards the front door before he noticed the absence of his boyfriend. Setting the suitcase on the ground, he sat on it. John crossed his legs casually. “I can wait all day.”

An identical car pulled up behind the one they'd travelled in and Mycroft and Greg climbed out.

“My brother causing issues, John?” The older man asked as he handed Greg their own case with a kiss.

“You have no idea.”

“I can deal with him if you'd like?”

“Would you?” At his nod John thanked him and followed after Greg. They had met the Holmes' once when they had visited Baker Street when they were in town, so it wasn't completely awkward when they knocked. John couldn't resist watching Mycroft head towards the car, however.

The door opened and Mrs. Holmes greeted them. After the mandatory hugs were exchanged, she snapped her fingers in the direction of the two men who were by now scuffling next to the cars. “Boys! Enough of that. Get inside now. And, 'Lock, don't forget your violin.”

That threw an idea into Sherlock's head. They weren't leaving until morning which meant Mycroft's cars would be leaving now. He subtly slid his violin under the seat an followed his brother in the direction of the house.

John took one look at him and knew the younger man was up to something, but he couldn't figure out what. Sherlock had his violin case with him and he was wearing a far too satisfied smile.

He rested his hand on Mrs. Holmes' arm and leant down to whisper something in her ear. She nodded once and called through to her husband. He paused at the door to hear what she had to say.

At once, the eldest Holmes deduced and yelled out, “Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock froze, the heel of his right foot touching the floor and his toes in the air. Cautiously, he turned about and gave an insincere smile. “Yes?”

“Don't yes me, young man. I know that case is empty.”

John squawked, “What? I watched him put his violin in there.”

Sherlock dropped his head.

“Oh but my youngest is very manipulative. Aren't you, Sherlock?”

“Yes, father.”

“Go and get it.”

Sighing, he turned and headed back towards the car which had restarted.

John was waiting on him when the detective returned with violin in hand. The doctor's foot was tapping.

Sherlock gave him a crooked smile that quickly fell away. “Not good?”

“No. Not good.” John was glad the others had disappeared inside so there was nobody to witness as he clipped him on the back of the head.

Sherlock let himself be dragged along by the scarf, not wanting to upset the doctor further. He'd already pushed him further than he had meant to.

“Coat off,” John hissed when they were by the coat rack.

Sherlock had never shed his coat so quickly, stuffing his scarf in his pocket he hung it up.

With a tight face, as an attempt to hide his anger, John just pointed in the direction he had seen the others go in.

Sherlock shuffled into the room the others had settled, the formal living room, the room where he had been required to give family recitals as he was growing up. He threw himself into the chair in the corner and folded his violin to his chest.

“Sherlock dear, are you okay?”

“He's fine, Mummy,” Mycroft answered.

“He's just sulking,” John agreed.

Mrs. Holmes smiled. “Oh, good. Business as usual, then. Siger, would you pour the drinks. I'll just check on dinner then be right back.” She patted her youngest on the head as she passed by him. “And you can play something suitable to the season when I return.”

“Will not!” He called after her.

“Sherlock,” his father's voice was threatening, so the detective took it as a threat. He met John's eyes, then looked away. Why on earth had he not got out of this? Even Mycroft seemed to be enjoying himself.

“It's quite alright, Mummy,” Mycroft commented as she came back in, “I'm quite certain John would be happy to play something for us.” He watched Sherlock's face closely as he gestured towards the baby grande piano on the opposite side of the room.

The detective laughed. “John wouldn't even be able to work out how to open it.”

“Oi!” The doctor yelled. “You seriously are asking for trouble, mister.”

Sherlock's face went oddly blank, the way it did when he realised he had missed something. He even blinked a few times as he tried to determine what else he might have missed about John Hamish Watson.

“Before or after dinner, Mrs. H?”

“Go for it now, son,” Siger interrupted. “May teach my boy some manners.”

Sherlock was beginning to feel like an idiot, and he had a horrible feeling that it was going to multiply.

John hesitated, then gave a self-deprecating shrug. It had been a long time since he had played and he had never been as good on the piano as Sherlock was on the violin. He crossed the room, sat down at the piano and folded back the cover from the keyboard. He didn't know whether he wanted to fail to get out of it or be spectacular just to prove Sherlock wrong for a change. Either way, the detective had leant forward on his seat.

John ran his hands lovingly over the ivory and ebony keys, then centred himself and began playing. His fingers flew over the keys and music filled the room with its presence.

Sherlock stayed completely still, hardly even breathing as he gaped in the doctor's direction. “I don't… you… I-”

Mummy brought her finger to her lips. “Shh.” Dinner could look after itself, she wasn't going to miss this.

Mycroft watched his brother, amused at his reaction. It wasn't unusual for Mycroft to deduce things that Sherlock had missed except where it came to John. It had to be an unpleasant shock for him.

Sherlock caught sight of his brother smirking at him. He would not let him win this. He stood up and wandered to the piano, surprising himself that he had left his violin. He sunk onto the bench beside his doctor and began playing with him.

Their notes twined together sweetly, the melody enhanced. It's beauty wasn't merely doubled, but increased exponentially. John smiled and swayed up against Sherlock as the music brought them closer together.

Johns leant over to whisper. “Violin.” The music wasn't effected by this but when Sherlock nodded and stood, John kept on going, some how being completely spontaneous. It was mere moments before Sherlock was perched on the edge of the piano, his violin at his neck.

When the bow was drawn over the violin strings, the music took on a different timbre entirely. They blended just as seamlessly as they had before, but this time there was an even deeper connection between them and the music soared.

Mycroft frowned, his annoyance plain.

“Don't be such a spoil sport,” Greg whispered in his ear even as he took his hand.

“But my brother…”

Greg gave his boyfriend's hand a warning squeeze. This was a side of Sherlock he had never been privileged to see before. He wasn't about to let the brothers' silly squabbling ruin the moment.

When the piece came to a close everyone clapped.

“Sherlock, I don't understand why you tried to hide your violin…” Mrs. Holmes started.

The detective frowned. He didn't know why either.

Siger stood and took his wife's hand, pulling her towards the door. “I'll help you with dinner, Violet.”

“I've got it, Siger. You ca...”

He hushed her with a look and pulled her from the room. Greg did something similar with Mycroft which left Sherlock and John alone.

Sherlock stood and replaced his violin in its case. John watched him as he placed it in its home with such care.

“You really didn't know I could play, did you?”

Sherlock shook his head as he closed the case. “No.” He turned to face John and smiled. “After all, there's always something. It's what makes you so fascinating.”

“I wasn't trying to hide it. It's just, the piano, anyone can play that, not like your violin.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You, Doctor Watson, are wrong.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Mycroft cannot play either.”

“Huh.” John ran his fingers through his hair. “Really? I always assumed he did, what with the piano here and all.” He gave a small shrug and looked at his hands. “Maybe if I had longer fingers like you I could play decently.”

Sherlock took the few steps to the older man, stooped and kissed him to shut him up. “You do play decently.”

The doctor grinned. A compliment from his detective.

“And the piano is Mummy's, Dad was the violinist, Mycroft was more into politics than music.”

“That's almost sad.” John leant into Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his self-proclaimed sociopath. The one who had chosen arguably the most sentimental of instruments to make his own.

“Boys, food's ready!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We'd better go through, Mummy won't be impressed if we skip out for some… you know.” A cute blush rose up his cheeks.

Bringing the detective's knuckles to his lips, John kissed them. “Okay, Love. I wouldn't want to upset Mummy.” With that he pulled Sherlock towards the kitchen.

As they ate, Mrs. Holmes froze and gripped her husband's knee. After a glance at her he looked at his youngest.

There Sherlock was, eating. Actually eating.

Neither of them dared say anything for fear of disturbing whatever spell had been cast over him. They needn't have worried, the spell was one John Watson and he was going nowhere.

The doctor caught their more than surprised gazes and smiled. He nodded once, then turned to the youngest Holmes.

“Tell me, Sherlock, does Greg play anything?”

The detective rolled his eyes. “I've temporarily put my musical deductions on hiatus. You'll have to ask him yourself.”

“Well,” John asked, “am I the only one with hidden talents?”

Greg gave Mycroft a sidelong grin. “Actually I do play something,” he paused just long enough to see a look of disbelief make its way over his boyfriend's face, “the kazoo.”

John laughed, then Mycroft, then everyone else.

“Wait until after dessert, Gregory, I think I have one somewhere,” Mr. Holmes offered.

The DI nodded. “I may be a bit out of practice.”

Sherlock had been taking a sip of water when Greg had spoken and it had resulted in something John had never thought to see: Sherlock Holmes doing a spit take.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Holmes yelled.

The detective coughed and John rubbed his back.

“S-sorry, Mummy,” he spluttered. He looked to Greg. “How can you be out of practice on a kazoo? There's one note.”

The DI gave a little laugh. “I might go off pitch or something. That's what you call it, yeah?”

“Myc, I like this one,” Mrs. Holmes declared. “You have to keep him. He actually knows how to laugh.”

Sherlock glanced at his own 'one' then shook his head. “Yeah, shame he didn't teach the uptight bastard how to do the same,” Sherlock commented with a pointed glare at his brother.

“Oi!” Greg objected, even as John reflexively clocked Sherlock in the back of the head. He froze, realising what he had just done.

The room went perfectly silent, then Siger said, “'Lock, I like this one. You have to keep him. He actually knows how to get your attention.”

Sherlock's head stayed ducked waiting for the second blow, when it didn't come he straightened up again. He glanced at John and then it came, the second clock on the back of the head, making his parents laugh.

“Definitely keep this one, I'm assuming he's the reason your plate is practically empty.”

“For some unknown reason, John seems to believe I require at least one 'decent' meal per day. It's related to his need to doctor me.”

“No it's related to your transport.”

“Oh, still pulling that one is he?”

John nodded at Mr. Holmes. “He only started listening to me about making him eat when he fainted after a five day case. Cars need fuel, after all.”

“My mind is more complex than a car, John.”

The doctor gave him a look. “It still needs fuel.”

“It's a good job we never bicker like that, innit, Mycroft?” Greg's comment was louder than he had intended.

“They bicker like an old married couple,” Mycroft agreed.

“I heard the tone of your voice, there, Son, you'd better watch yourself.”

Mycroft glanced at his father and inclined his head slightly.

“You're never too old to learn something new, Myc. You could take up an instrument.” Mrs. Holmes had seen the wistful envy on her eldest son's face as Sherlock and John played.

“No, thank you, Mummy, being the British Government doesn't leave any time for much else.”

Greg cleared his throat pointedly.

“Except you, babe,” he amended quickly.

“Better.”

Siger noticed that Sherlock was getting twitchy. He could tell that his son's knee was bouncing under the table and Sherlock had started twirling his fork with his fingers. He gestured towards Sherlock's plate, “Had enough, son?”

He nodded.

“What are you so nervous for?” Siger asked.

The detective shrugged.

“Well it's clearly something.”

“I'm not nervous,” Sherlock denied. “It's simply that I found playing a duet with John somewhat pleasurable.”

Greg laughed, “Go ahead, you can say it, you had fun.”

“What, like you and your kazoo?”

Greg smirked.

“Okay,” Mrs. Holmes interrupted. “Mycroft, I understand you having to put up with his habits, you're his brother. John is a little trickier to get my head around, but the two of you obviously love each other, but Gregory… how or even why do you put up with him?”

The DI got an odd look on his face. Most people assumed without asking that he put up with Sherlock for the sake of his work and his boyfriend. The former had been true in the beginning, but now... “God help me, I like the cheeky bas... bloke.”

“It's alright, Gavin, you've called me worse before.”

“God dammit!” The DI grabbed a handful of peas and threw them in Sherlock's direction.

The detective retaliated with carrots and it went downhill fast from there. Violet and Siger knew how to handle such ridiculous behaviour, they stood, held hands and retreated to the kitchen.  The last thing they heard was an 'umph' from Mycroft as something hit him squarely between the eyes and his declaration that “This means war.”

John dragged his detective behind the chair to take cover. “Your parents just walked off.”

Sherlock shrugged. “They do that.”

“They're not even going to try and stop us?”

Sherlock shook his head, even as he looked over the top of the chair to watch what the others were up to.

The conversation had been echoed on the other side of the room by Greg and Mycroft who were hiding behind their own chairs.

“Alright, then.” Greg peaked over the table. “I'm going for the bowl of potatoes.”

“No, don't!” Mycroft yelled, but it was too late.

Sherlock and John let every single piece of food they had stashed go in the direction of Greg, who was now stranded without cover. There was nothing for it. To save Gregory, the sprouts would have to be sacrificed. Mycroft lunged for them and lobbed them by the handful at the two attacking men.

Unnoticed in the doorway, Siger and Violet stood with everything that would need to be used to clean the room. At the first break in battle, they would transfer ownership of their load to the boys. The room would be the problem of the four men.

“Wait,” Siger whispered. He disappeared out of view for a moment and she heard the fridge door open.

He walked through the house and reappeared at the other door. Before Sherlock and John had any idea he was there, the large bowl of custard left over from dessert was poured all over the pair of them.

John blinked a few times, then wiped away a bit of custard that was about to make its way into his eye. He looked at his finger, shrugged and licked it.

For his part, Sherlock had stood tall, trying to retain a bit of dignity. He was a miserable failure at it with his wilted curls and the random pea decorating his shirt.

Mycroft and Greg stood, the other side of the room, laughing, full on laughter.

“Don't know what you boys are smiling about,” Siger said with a nod.

Violet was stood behind them the other bowl in her hands.

“Bollocks,” Mycroft hissed, as he and his boyfriend were covered equally.

Greg just kept laughing. Mycroft looked so ridiculous standing there covered in custard as he was. Slowly, the government official's mouth twitched up at the corner and he too began laughing again.

“Now guess what, boys?” Siger asked, from where he stood back next to his wife.

The four custard covered men looked over at them, cleaning products galore in their hands.

“Well,” John sighed, “at least now I understand why they just walked away.” He reached out a hand to catch Sherlock who was already edging his way towards the door. “You are not getting out of this, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock sighed, waited for John to let go and then rushed off, super fast.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, immediately giving chase.

He tackled the detective in the hallway and pinned him to the floor. “You're only making things worse, Sherlock. Do I have to threaten you?”

“With what?”

John licked the side of his face. Custard. “I'll eat you.”

“John,” Sherlock purred, “that's not a threat at all.”

“Ahem,” Greg cleared his throat from where he stood.

The detective rolled his eyes. “Alright, Gavin, we're coming.”

“Call me Gavin one more time and I'll let you in no crime scenes for a year.”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Fine... Geoff.” He ran, making a break for the front door.

This time it was Mycroft who tackled him. He pinned his baby brother to the wall, his arm up his back. “Sherlock, the further you run, the more of the house we have to clean up.”

The detective sighed - his brother was infuriatingly correct. “Alright. Fine. I'll stop running.”

“Not good enough, baby brother.”

Sherlock growled once, then spoke, “I'll even clean.”

Mycroft grinned, he stepped back and pulled Sherlock away from the wall. He pushed him into the kitchen and folded his arms. John and Greg joined the older brother, also folding their arms.

“What are you waiting for, little brother? Get cleaning.”

“By myself?!” Sherlock stamped his foot. “That's not fair.”

“You've made it clear, brother-mine, that we have to guard the doors. Once you've made some headway we might be convinced to relent.”

He glanced at the door to the kitchen the other side of the room where his father was stood. “Dad…” he just folded his arms. “Fine.” Sherlock sat back down in his chair and folded his arms too.

John walked over to the detective and bent to whisper something in his boyfriend's ear. Sherlock went paler than normal and gawped at the doctor. “You wouldn't! Not for two weeks!!”

“Try me.”

“Will you help?”

The doctor shook his head and went back to stand with the others.

Sighing, Sherlock dropped to his knees to begin picking up the stuff that would definitely not go up the hoover.

They stood and watched for a full five minutes before Greg gave in and started helping. Sherlock gave him a questioning look. The DI shrugged. “I started it, I should definitely be helping.” That spurred the other two guilty parties to action as well. It took over 30 minutes for the room to start shaping up.

“You four better start working out how you are going to get upstairs to the shower with custard all over you,” Siger offered behind them.

“Mummy,” Sherlock wheedled, “You could bring down some of our old clothes and we could change.”

“Nope. You made the mess.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked across the room at his brother.

“And I wouldn't start plotting anything until this place is spotless.”

Having arguably the least modesty of anyone in the room, Sherlock started removing the outer layer of his clothing, placing each item carefully on the table inside out.

“Sherlock,” John paused him with a word. “Think this through. Getting naked is a great idea, yeah, but we need to clean the rest of this place, if you do that naked then you still can't go upstairs.”

“I could always wash you down in the garden with the hose, Son, like when you were kids.”

Sherlock shuddered. It was cold outside. “I believe I've thought better of my plan.”

“Quite sensible, baby brother,” Mycroft agreed with a smirk. He had to duck when Sherlock threw a dirty cloth in his direction.

“The longer you four take, the less hot water you're going to get.”

“Your parents are harsh,” Greg pointed out.

“We kind of deserve it, Gregory.”

The DI gave a snort and got back to work.

It only took another 25 minutes of cleaning to make everything presentable again. From Sherlock's dramatic sighs and moans, one would have thought it had taken them hours.

Greg wiped his hands on a dirty tea towel and tossed it in the laundry bin. “I'll shower last,” he offered graciously. “It was my fault anyway.”

“Change of plan, boys.” Siger stood by the back door, hose in hand. “And I wouldn't try the door, your mother locked it.”

Sherlock sighed, then shrugged. “We used to love it as kids, Myc, this is only pay back.” He walked straight through the dining room in the direction of the back garden. All four men filed outside. Sherlock started to remove his clothes again, but Siger didn't wait. He sprayed him, clothes and all, until he looked like a drenched cat.

“You see why I wanted to stay at home, John?!”

“I may tend to agree with you on further...” the rest of his sentence was cut off as John was the next in line.

Sherlock stood there as the other 'boys' received the same treatment. Mycroft endured it stoically. Greg... not so much. John could read every vile word that the DI somehow managed not to vocalise. Instead of vocalising his frustration he took it out on Mycroft and rugby tackled him into the grass, making their clothes just as dirty, this time in grass stains rather than their dinner.

John was so engrossed in watching the unfolding scuffle, that he was caught completely off guard when Sherlock tackled him to the ground as well. “Bloody hell! I'm cold, Sherlock. Get off!”

“This'll warm us up, then, won't it?”

The doctor just shook his head, rolling the pair of them so he was on top with the much taller man pinned beneath him.

“Sherlock, I am getting washed off again, accepting one of the towels that your mother is holding and going in to get a hot shower. If you or Greg,” he shot over his shoulder, “try anything else, you will be very grateful that your brother is the British Government.”

Siger grinned. “You, John Watson are the only one getting a hot shower.”

“Myc, your dad, he can't...” Greg wasn't really angry, he just felt the need to play the part.

“He is the father of the British Government,” Sherlock interjected. “I'm pretty sure he is the most powerful man in Britain not my brother.”

John laughed and climbed off the detective for his second ice cold shower. When Violet opened the door and offered him a towel, he took it gratefully. The three gits still sitting on the lawn could fend for themselves. He even whistled as he made his way upstairs and into the loo.

When he was warm and dry and in his new clothes he opened the bathroom window and peered out. The others were still outside, being intermittently sprayed by Siger who was guarding the back door and not letting them in.

John didn't want the trio catching pneumonia. He was about to go down and intercede when Siger relented. The doctor could hear him cackling from where he was stood.

John knew in that moment Mr. Holmes was done for. He moved to place the hose down and turned to the door, to find it locked, when he turned again, Mycroft had the hose and Sherlock was by the tap.

John had wondered why Mrs. Holmes had followed him into the house. Now he understood. Her laughter floated up the stairs. Running down them, he joined her by the window to watch the antics.

“How do you do it, dear?”

He looked across at the older woman. “Do what?” He asked with a smile.

“Put up with him,” she changed her mind, “them.”

“Mycroft makes Sherlock a lot of what I love about him, I mean, they're closer now then they have been in the last 10 years, I probably don't need to tell you that.”

She reached out and patted John on the cheek. “It's because of you and Gregory. You drew them together. Thank you.”

John smiled. “Sherlock saved my life, I owe it to him. And on a completely different note, shall we let Mr. Holmes in?”

“It's Siger, dear, and no, I think we can leave him out there a little longer, don't you?”

“Shouldn't we prepare something to warm them up instead, then? Drinks, perhaps,” John suggested.

“Sherlock's right. You do like to take care of people.”

“That's why I became a doctor.”

She smiled at him. “Of course it is.” Glancing out the window, she reached over and unlocked the door quietly. “I'll make drinks. You build up the fire.”

John nodded and made his way through to the sitting room. The logs were in a basket beside the fire so he screwed up some well placed newspaper and lit it first before placing the dry logs on top. Sherlock came up behind him and wrapped his wet, cold arms around him. John drew in a hissing breath. “Bloody hell, but you're cold!” He tried to wriggle free. Sherlock didn't let him.

“And you're warm,” the detective countered.

“We'd both be warmer if you'd let me light the fire.”

“Valid point.”

“You're too slow, little brother!” Mycroft yelled as he dragged Greg up the stairs.

“Bollocks!” Sherlock grumbled even as he heard the bathroom door shut.

Mr. Holmes came in with a plastic bin liner. “Strip down to your pants and put your wet clothes in this.”

When Sherlock had done so, Mrs. Holmes wrapped a blanket around him. It felt good, she had warmed it in the dryer.

John pulled him down onto his lap, and rubbed his back through the blanket. He kissed the back of his neck, and Sherlock's wet curls settled in his neck.

The Siger and Violet went unnoticed watching the sentiment from the door.

Sherlock hummed contentedly as he warmed. “We should get a piano for the flat.”

John chuckled. “A nice thought, that, but there's nowhere to put it, Love. How about a keyboard. They make some nice ones. Not like when I was a kid.”

“Only if I get to select it. I won't have you playing something inferior.”

The doctor laughed again. “Can't have the all and mighty Sherlock Holmes, touching something so beneath him, can we?”

“It's not for me, John. It's for you. You need a keyboard that feels like the real thing when you play it.” He leaned back enough to kiss John.

“Or we could stay right here, and kiss one another until nothing else matters.”

Sherlock pulled back and tilted his head to one side. “We could most definitely do that, yes.”


End file.
